I have been nominated by man’s poetry for the ‘Versatile blogger award’. A big thanks to him for that. He is a wonderful and talented poet and the best thing about his blog is all his posts/poems are unique. So request you all to go check out his poems.

What is the Versatile Blogger Award?

Bloggers nominate other bloggers who they believe deserve recognition for their high quality standard of writing, uniqueness of content, passion and love displayed throughout the site and to top it off, amazing photos!

Rules of the Versatile Blogger Award:

Thank the blogger who nominated you and share their link.

Nominate up to 10 bloggers for the award and provide links to their blogs. Also, inform them about the nomination.

‘I love how the rain drops hang from the drenched window grills.’ I added, smiling.

All I could think of was how much I’d missed the rain. I would shut all the windows, pull the curtains and sit on my bed putting the earplugs in. I’d started hating the sound of rain.

After a long time, that day I didn’t stop myself. I closed my eyes and let them see his face. I didn’t open them for a long time, my voice choked up, I swallowed hard, but the tears couldn’t be stopped either; they emerged from the corner of my eyes.

I was wrong to have buried him deep inside my heart, I realized; he deserved to live in it and his memories deserved to be celebrated. I, however, had locked them in an old trunk and kept the key out of my sight.

I moved away from the window, opened the trunk and took a deep breath; a strange hypnotizing smell filled my nostrils. I took out his belongings one by one; I sniffed them all and they still did smell of him.

‘I’m sorry.’ I muttered, hoping he was around to hear it.

Someone knocked at my door.

I wiped the tears, sniffled hard and smiled to myself – ‘I promise to let you live in my heart, to never abandon your memories and to keep loving you without guilt. I know you can hear me, so let me tell you, a part inside of me will remain yours forever.’

I opened the door; they held my hands, tears pouring down their faces; they took me to the man who I got married to this morning.

I wiped their tears – ‘You never made me feel that you weren’t my parents and it wasn’t my house but my in-laws’…God may have different names and faces, but to me you are God and I will worship you forever.’

Nothing came out of my mouth; I stood silently, my eyes fixed on hers, my heart beat faster than ever.

‘Auntie, can I have some water?’ I said a moment later.

She looked me up and down, frowned for a bit, then smiled – ‘Come in.’

Once inside, I looked around the living room which had two wooden chairs, a small table in the center and a long floor lamp; it was a tiny house having one small room, visible through the sheer curtain on the opposite end, a stove in one corner and a small wall cabinet above it. I saw her pouring water into a steel glass from an earthen pot.

She seemed lost in her thoughts for a little while, then replied, ‘I don’t have a family…but – ‘

‘But??’ My eyes glinted, hoping to hear what I’d come here for.

‘I had a daughter…she – ‘ Words stuck in her throat.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be…I’m sure she’s alive and…safe. She’ll be 24 this year.’ She said with a calm smile, then looking in my eyes added, ‘how old are you?’

‘Twenty three’, quickly changing the topic, I asked, ‘where is she?’

‘I don’t know…I gave her away.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a long story…’

‘Don’t you want to see her again?’

She remained silent, her eyes dropped and lips quivered; she sniffled hard and shook her head.

‘Why?’

‘She was just 5 when I gave her away to my friend and her husband…they had no children of their own. I didn’t want to, but I had to. They would’ve killed her had they found her with me.’

‘Who’re they?’ I knew the answer and hated myself for pushing her into this pain all over again but I needed to be sure if she really was…

‘My husband and his family. They’d wished for a boy who would carry forward their family name, but I gave birth to a girl. They wanted to kill her; I ran away, came to this village and we were staying here peacefully until – ‘ she paused, then furrowed her brow.

She added, ‘why do you want to know all this? Has he sent you to know about Pratiksha?’ Her face expressed a mixture of rage, fear and suspicion.

‘Was her name Pratiksha?’ I asked, smiling.

‘What have you come here for?’ She ignored my question.

‘I’ve come for you, Ma…I’m your Pratiksha.’ I thought and stood up from the chair, ‘My car broke down near the village…driver said it’d take some time to get it fixed…so I was loitering around a bit, got thirsty and…sorry for the trouble.’

After taking my leave, I came back to my car.

Pratiksha was 5 years old and was happily living in this village with her mother; little did they know what destiny had in store for them. Her father tracked them down and one night he set the small abandoned house they were staying in on fire. They managed to escape, but her mother decided to give her away so she could live safely.

Last year, my parents’d told me everything; I knew coming back to my birth mother wasn’t a possibility anymore, neither did I want to as I was happy in my life. But however much I had tried to elude the truth, the urge to see her had intensified with time.

‘Did you tell her that you’re – ‘

I cut my friend short – ‘No.’

‘Did she recognize you?’

‘No…how would she?’ I got in the car and started it.

‘My friend’s been sending me your photo every year, Pratiksha…I recognized you the moment I opened the door…but I don’t want you to come back here again and again and be torn between the two lives which are a lot different from each other.’ Her mother watched her with watery eyes as she drove off.

‘Can we talk – ‘ Rishav’s voice choked up as Nisha turned around, reminding him of the first time they’d met in college;

it hadn’t taken him long to realize that it was love at first sight.

It’d taken a little longer, however, for Nisha to realize her feelings for him but once she did, they were inseparable; in no time they’d been labeled as soul-mates by friends and even families; their story was no less than a fairytale and like it happens in fairy-tales, soon they’d begun their happily ever after.

Nisha scrunched her eyebrows; she looked surprised, her stare blank and cold, deprived of any emotions; Rishav added, ‘I wanted to talk with you one last time before we…sign that paper…’; Nisha nodded with a straight face;

‘weren’t we soul-mates – ‘ his voice trailed off as he uttered those words and the floodgates of memories and emotions opened up;

‘if we really were, then our souls picked the wrong mates for themselves…’ She left the room with her divorce lawyer.

The clock strikes 10; my phone buzzes, I disconnect the call from work and turn my face away to stare deep into the darkness; the park is hauntingly empty at this time of the day.

‘Running away isn’t a wise choice, dear – ‘

I look in the direction the voice came from, a man sitting beside me, his face vaguely visible in the faint light; irritably, I utter, ‘Pardon?’

‘Don’t elude the reality – ‘

The calmness in his voice angers me; I reply, ‘Don’t preach to me…this job’s killing my inner self; I’m not who this job demands me to be…I’m an artist, I – ‘

‘Then bring that artist out of its grave…the real world will always try to mold you into a puppet that works as per its master’s rules; only you can listen to your inner self, so it’s your duty to keep it alive…running away from the reality isn’t what a real artist does, rather he turns the harsh face of reality into a beautiful piece of art.’

I get lost in the thoughts induced by his words; suddenly a gruff voice brings me back to the present – ‘It’s time to close the park’; it’s the security guard.

I look to my right and find the seat next to me empty; I ask, ‘Did you see someone, maybe an old man leaving the park?’

His eyes narrowed; he refused to give them money; the little beggar boy and his sister in a wheelchair moved to the next person in line.

‘I’m sure she can walk…frauds!!’ The man shouted, glaring at them.

The boy froze up; his heart beat faster.

His sister held his trembling hand tightly – ‘Would you believe if we said that our mother’s dying? You’ll ask for proof and if we show one, you’ll say it’s fake. We aren’t dishonest by choice, sir…we’re forced by circumstances. How else do you think a 9 year-old and a 7 year-old would save their mother?’